Quotes About Contrast

The priests looked pinched and cold, though Hild didn't feel the chill.

She was wearing a hacking jacket and turtleneck, a riding hat tricked under her left arm. I wondered what the photo opportunity had been, and why she looked happy. She hated houses. Her hair was dark honey streaked with grey and cut in a soft, chin-length bob. It looked all wrong; my mother had had long hair for as long as I could remember. She had gained a few pounds. She looked younger and softer.

He was looking at her too hard; his eyes were startling against his dark skin, like burnished bronze, glowing and greening in summer sun.

In Atlanta at one o'clock on a Thursday morning I would have had downtown to myself, but Seattle's center flickered with flashes of restless, contradictory life.

Kissing her was not like kissing Julia, who had been all length and plum softness, and whose messages had been very clear. Kick was like a powerful trapped beast. She stirred restlessly, one hand in the small of my back, pulling me closer, one on my shoulder pushing me away. I eased to one side, weight on my right elbow, head propped on my hand. I stroked her belly. The muscle loosened. She sighed. The sigh sounded as though it had a smile in it. I smiled in the dark.

When she climbed out of the car, I saw the difference, the sleekness, her buttocks as ripe as mangoes, her arms and legs plump and muscled.

Gwaldus tugged at her collar again. She looked nothing like Hereswith. She was at least two years older, half a hand shorter. Her eyes were grey-green, and her hair would be paler when washed. Her whole body would be paler. Her nipples were more pink than red.

He was younger than old Yvain, his voice as supple as a withy-wound chariot.

I've heard horror stories of Old Masters wrapped in newspapers and arriving with ghastly copes of the funnies imprinted on a stately old forehead.

His eyes were as liquid as run honey, dark clover honey, and his hair was a rich brown with bronze sun straks, but his beard, like his eyebrows, was black. His face and hands were the colour of walnut, or perhaps elm bark, but lighter where his sleeves rose above his wrists. He was not thick-boned and heavy-muscled like Cei, but whippy as a hazel rod, and she knew she would not face him lightly in battle.

Julia stood and they shook hands in that brittle Southern girl-girl squeeze of limp fingers; the one that says, When did they start letting people like you in? Dornan, of course, noticed none of this. His world was full of Tammy, his girl, his fiancée, the light of his life.

Poison had made the world so beautiful.

She looked nothing like that young wife, and nothing like the men with hair on their faces. Her mother's hair, almost, but not her eyes.

The scent of spring flowers, delicate as lace, there and gone again. Utterly unlike Atlanta.

Breguswith's eyes were hard, bright blue, with none of that milky aging Hild saw in Æffe's and Brugen's eyes.

Your eyes are different in this light. No colour at all. Like cement.

She looked alert and lithe, a dancer with briefcase in the wrong building.

I looked at my hands, turned them over in the tarnished shine of streetlights seeping through a crack in the curtains. They were long; strong and competent with nicely shaped nails; hard enough for a palm strike, soft enough to trace gentle arabesques on a taut trembling stomach or along a soft inner thigh. The stains did not show.

The green grass of Gwynedd was a better way to end than blind agony in a dark, close room.

Her own sea-grey with green to his sea-green with grey.

Port Central had become a sophisticated prison for its inmates, while the natives roamed a whole world.

The barbarian either totally mocks or totally worships. Civilization is a smile that discreetly combines irony and respect.

It is enough for beauty to touch our tedium for our heart to be torn like silk between the hands of life.

The historical importance of a man rarely corresponds to his intimate nature. History is full of victorious morons.